


Blaine House

by WafflesnRizzles



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: A non-Christmas version, Eyesex, F/F, Love Actually - Freeform, Politics, Poorly placed octapuses, Swan Queen all the way, Well - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 05:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12976779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WafflesnRizzles/pseuds/WafflesnRizzles
Summary: Democrat Regina Mills runs for Governor of Maine and--against all odds--wins as the first female governor of the state. Forced to move from her sleepy town of Storybrooke with her ten year old son, Regina settles in at Blaine House, the governor's mansion in Augusta, where an attractive and foulmouthed blonde brightens up what is set to be a grueling four years.This is an AU based on the Prime Minister vignette from Love Actually, though no Christmas actually occurs. Happy Holidays, everyone!





	1. Adjustment

Regina Mills waves her right arm regally to an adoring crowd of supporters. They’re cheering, and inside the small, intimate campaign headquarters, it’s deafeningly loud. She smiles that patient politician smile that her mother had beaten into her by age fourteen and waits patiently for the din of the crowd to die down.

 

“Citizens of Maine, I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for electing me as your first female Governor. This has been a long, hard win, but I assure you that I will never stop listening to you, will never stop fighting for what is right…”

 

Only the sound of photographers clicking their cameras could be heard in the room as Regina spoke. She spoke, for once, from her mind and her heart, rather than from a script her mother and campaign manager had shoved under her nose. It was freeing, and she felt herself quickly warming to the idea of a Governor Mills. Her mother had pushed and pushed her to run for the open state senate seat ( _you need to be in the_ national _spotlight, dear, not working as some glorified community organizer_ ) but she had successfully refused by leaking information of her bid to the press without her mother’s knowledge.

 

Her speech did not continue for much longer. She wanted it short and sweet, as her last official address to her constituency until she would assume office two months later in January. The crowd clapped wildly and her son Henry was dragged onto the stage by his grandmother Cora, where they all smiled broadly for the cameras. Regina politely made her rounds to her various supporters and campaign staff, but excused herself from further schmoozing and revelry with the excuse of a tired ten-year-old son.

 

It was no lie: Henry and Regina Mills were exhausted. When it was all over, the mother and son returned, spent, to their nondescript hotel room not far from the campaign headquarters. After hours of revelry, each was dreaming of the sweet quietude of their sleepy hometown of Storybrooke, Maine.

 

SQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQ

 

A number of people stand clapping and cheering as her modest towncar drives into the semi-circular driveway of the famous Blaine House, Maine’s governors’ mansion and her home for the next four years. She waits for her driver to stop the car and open her door, steeling herself in the twenty seconds it takes Archie to do so. Henry stares pointedly at his feet, refusing to look at her since they passed the _Now Leaving Storybrooke_ sign, but with a pointed purse of her lips and cautioning utterance of his name, Regina gets the sullen boy to grudgingly clamber out of the car. He sticks close to her side, hiding from the assembled crowd outside the mansion.

 

Once they ascend the staircase and the clean white door shuts, however, Henry’s halfhearted attempts at civility cease. His flashing brown eyes sweeping across the stuffy wallpaper, unknown people and heavy wooden furniture within, he plants his feet and shouts, “You’re just like the Evil Queen in my book!” He pushes past her, his brown eyes flashing in accusation, “I wanna go back to Storybrooke!” 

 

Regina looks, stunned, at the assembled staff in the room beyond, her painted red lips parted slightly in shock and red spots of shame just barely dusting her cheeks. When she had broken the news to Henry that they would have to leave Storybrooke to live at the Governor’s mansion in Augusta, he had thrown an absolute fit, at first loud and accusatory and finally silent and brooding. He hadn’t had an outburst like this in over three weeks. It still cut right to the quick of her, regardless.

 

As an adoptive single mother, Regina had never had it particularly easy raising her child, but this was certainly her biggest challenge with the stubborn boy yet. Her heart ached every time he shot her a look of anger and betrayal, and she wished more than anything she could call the entire thing off. She could go back to being Mayor of Storybrooke and everything would be okay with her normally sweet little prince.

 

“Um, do you want—” a blonde woman in her early thirties starts to ask Regina, but the Governor cuts her off.

 

“No,” Regina bites out. “He’s fine. He’ll be fine.” She sighs harshly, putting a hand to her temple and closing her eyes as her head pounds. “He’s been having some adjustment issues. He’s probably just gone to the car. He’s very fond of our driver, Archie.” It’s more clipped than she intends it to be, and she sees the assembled staff stiffen slightly at her tone.

 

“Well then, welcome Governor Mills. Let me introduce you to everyone…” The kind but sassy woman named Tink Green begins. She and Regina had become somewhat of friends over the campaign season as she worked as Regina’s PR manager. She hadn’t seen the blonde woman since the end of the campaign, and was glad the feisty woman had agreed to come on as her official administration PR manager as well.

 

Regina smiles her assent and is led into a large, open room where the staff is assembled in a neat line.

 

Tink introduces Regina to each person in turn—cooks, gardeners, groundskeepers, secretaries—and Regina makes sure to give them each a winning politician’s smile and an intimate word or two. People loved feeling like you really _knew_ them. It was a lesson her mother had taught her early and had reiterated often.

 

The last person the woman introduces Regina to is much younger than the rest of the staff. She seems to be in her mid-twenties, and Regina is immediately stunned by the woman’s beauty and shy, dimpled smile. “And this is Emma Swan. She’s new with us. She’ll be your personal assistant while you’re here in The Blaine House.”

 

“Hello, Regina,” the blonde says nervously, shaking Regina’s hand vigorously. “I mean…ma’am. Shit. I mean…damn it. I—shit. I _really_ shouldn’t have said that. I’m so sorry ma’am.” Emma’s head falls in embarrassment. She bites her lip and uses one index finger to slide her thick black glasses up her nose, something akin to a wince on her face.

 

Regina feels her mouth twitch upward in amusement, but she schools her face into what she hopes looks like some semblance of neutrality.

 

“What a delightful vocabulary you have, Miss Swan. Tell me: do you speak this colorfully around children?”

 

“I, uh, yes? My mom is always telling me to watch what I’m saying around my little brother and sister, but I really just can’t seem to help it. Gods, I had this awful feeling that I was going to fuck up on my first day here and here I am messing it all up already…”

 

Regina only looks at Emma knowingly, and the blonde only stares at her, an adorably confused look on her face.

 

“Oh shit…”

 

Regina tries but fails to fight the smile at war with her better judgment. This woman was utterly crass—but somehow all the more endearing because of it.

 

“Well…” Tink’s voice breaks them of their prolonged eye contact. “Why don’t we start crafting your press statement and start fixing the mess that awful Republican left in his wake, eh?”

 

Regina swallows too loudly, her mouth suddenly too wet and her body altogether too aware of it—and nods curtly to the sputtering blonde.

 

 _This is so inconvenient_ , she thinks as she follows Tink into the ‘war room.’ Her heart doesn’t stop hammering long into their strategy session.


	2. Inconveniences

The next time Regina Mills sees the _inconvenient_ blonde, it’s seven in the evening two weeks later and she hasn’t had time to think, let alone eat or see Henry. A massive blizzard had come through Maine, dumping over two feet of snow in fewer than 24 hours. She had declared a ‘state of emergency,’ and was currently up to her ears in news reports, phone calls, statement drafts and budget reports.

 

Why the fuck had her predecessor cut the state’s emergency fund in half during his tenure? The bastard had also reduced the state’s on-hand snowplow fleet by half as well, leaving her and her state royally fucked.

 

_All in the name of ‘responsible government_ ,’ Regina thought bitterly.

 

When the door to the conference room opened, the motion in the room didn’t cease. Nobody turned their heads at the shy, beautiful blonde who stepped in the room, carrying a ridiculously Victorian tray with a polished silver domed lid.

 

“Governor Mills,” she says with a genuine smile that lights Regina up from the inside.

 

“Miss Swan.” She’s all effervescing sunshine in a quiet sort of way, and it has Regina forgetting everything but the color of the woman’s eyes behind her thick glasses for the moment. The look Emma gives her is nothing short of surprised, but she maintains an unnerving eye contact with Regina, who summarily looks down again.

 

Were Miss Swan’s eyes green…or were they blue?

 

Regina looks up from her work again, just to check. Hazel. Her stomach flips wildly at the cute smile the woman affords her. They were definitely hazel.   


“I have a very important message for you.” The blonde lifts the lid of the tray with a flourish—like a butler in a bad period movie—to reveal a folded piece of computer paper.

 

Regina looks at the blonde curiously, but takes the paper, smoothing the crease down the middle out as her face lit up in a wide, genuine smile.

 

It was from Henry. He never was the best artist, but from what Regina could make out, he had drawn a throne with a Queen perched atop it. To her left, on a smaller throne, was a little boy with brown floppy hair. And to her right was a knight, blonde tresses poking out of the grey helmet and a red jacket adorned over the armor.

 

Regina’s eyes slid up to the blonde, who was sporting a hideous red leather jacket over her black, conservative work dress. A curved black eyebrow lifted up to Regina’s hairline. She had heard from Henry that Emma had been spending quite a lot of time with her son, who seemed overjoyed with his new playmate. He could talk of nothing but Emma in the brief moments Regina had been able to see him.

 

“What sorts of things have you been filling my son’s head with, Miss Swan?” Regina asks dryly, only a hint of amusement coloring her tone.

 

“I, uh. He has me read him his book…a lot. Miss Mills—Governor Mills,” the blonde stumbles. Her cheeks become rapidly pink, and red courses from her ears down her chest and disappearing into the modest neckline of her dress.

 

Regina holds back a laugh. This is the best she’s felt all day, if not all week. There’s something about this woman that puts Regina strangely at ease. “And I suppose he imagines _you_ as the book’s so-called Savior?” She isn’t quite able to hold the bitterness out of her words—after all, he had been imagining Regina as the Evil Queen—but they come out teasing enough for the blonde to flush even more crimson. Deciding to spare her, Regina asks more seriously, “How is he?” She hadn’t even gotten to see her son for breakfast, as the storm had rolled in that night. He was still brooding about having to leave Storybrooke, and it broke Regina’s heart every time he would shoot her an accusatory glare. He had been having trouble making friends at school here, after never having to worry about meeting new people in their small, isolated town of Storybrooke.

 

“He’s doing good. We went sledding on the hill over that way,” Emma says with a wide grin. Her eyes light up, and she begins telling Regina about their adventures much to Regina’s pleasure. She can never hear enough stories about her son, and Emma paints him to be the beautiful, smart boy Regina knows he is, but they are interrupted when a short, older man puts an arm on her shoulder.

 

“If you will excuse me,” he says, not sounding at all very sorry for interrupting the woman. “Regina, we have the head of the National Guard on the phone.”

 

“Yes, Sidney, I’ll be right there.” Regina could see the blonde visibly deflate, but gave her a tight, less than reassuring smile and stood to take the phone call.

 

It irked her to no end that she felt something…negative in her stomach when the blonde turned away from her, and irked her even more still that she felt a hot flush all over her neck and face in realizing where her eyes lingered as Emma walked away. If she were ready to admit it to herself, she would realize it was where her eyes _always_ went when Emma turned away from her, but it was easy enough to blame it on the ridiculously tight, albeit ostensibly conservative, clothing the woman always insisted upon wearing.

 

SQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQ 

It quickly becomes habit for Emma to interrupt Regina’s work. She would show up with notes from Henry or a warm teapot with Regina’s favorite black almond tea. Most of the time, Regina didn’t have much time to talk, but with their increasing number of interactions, Emma became increasingly less diffident around the intimidating Governor. When Regina was in particularly important meetings, Emma would often slip the notes under teacups and pastries—usually these hideously monstrous ones that made the notes particularly sticky, but she didn’t mind. Not really, anyway. She had started keeping wet wipes in her desk drawer just for the occasion. Regina found that she looked forward to these random visits, and would get anxious if she went too long without seeing the sunny blonde.

 

“Regina, you’re very distracted right now. Is anything on your mind?” Tink asks, squinting her eyes to try to dissect the brunette in front of her. “We need you in perfect form when Dragon Lady comes next week.”

 

“Of course not. I think I just need some caffeine. Do you think you can call for some tea?” Regina asks dismissively, turning her attention back to the papers in front of her.

 

Tink shoots her friend a knowing look, but doesn’t say anything (she was quick to figure out when Regina should _not_ be goaded) as she gets up to find the Swan lady. In the past two months since Regina had been Governor, Tink had found that only a certain personal assistant could coax a smile from the overworked Regina Mills’ face. Her friend had come into the Governorship with lofty goals, and was now tasked with the arduous reality of delivering on them.

 

When the door opened next, Regina looked up to only find one blonde and not two. “Miss Swan,” Regina greets. “Where has Miss Green gone?”

 

Being alone with Emma evoked dual feelings of excitement and dread within Regina, giving the distinguished woman the embarrassing notion that she was acting like a delusional high schooler.

 

Emma shrugs. It’s loose and rather insouciant, and Regina really wonders how the woman even acquired a job in such an eminent establishment. She sets down the burnished silver tray in front of Regina. It has a steaming teapot, two mugs and one of those monstrous and disturbing pastries on it.

 

Without being asked, Emma sits down in the chair Tink had so recently vacated. She leans back in it, crossing her legs in a very masculine fashion. Regina really _does_ wonder how she ever got this job. Not that she’s complaining.

 

“Miss Swan, why do you insist upon being so uncouth?” So maybe she will complain, after all. No need to let the blonde feel too comfortable in her employer’s presence. Regina gestures to the jeans. The see-through black shirt and—Regina swallows too loudly—overly-apparent bra. The damned red leather jacket. That smirk.

 

“I can’t exactly chase a ten year old around in a dress,” Emma retorts cheekily, leaning over to break herself off a piece of the pastry. Regina gets an eyeful of breasts clad in a modest black bra and forces her eyes to the woman’s face. Emma’s green eyes are flashing with mirth, and Regina wonders if she’s been caught. She swallows against the growing wetness in her mouth, and isn’t sure whether she wants to strangle the blonde or kiss her.

 

“He does have a nanny, I’m sure you know?”

 

“A nanny that’s a guy.” Emma reaches over and pours herself a cup of tea. Regina purses her lips and decides it best not to comment on the woman’s blatant sexism or point out the fact that Emma was hardly the nurturing type herself. It’s not as if they hadn’t had this conversation before.

 

“I thought it would be beneficial for him to have a male figure in his life. Men can be just as effective caretakers if they choose to be.”

 

Emma snorts her dissent, uncrossing her arms so that she could take a particularly long gulp of the scalding hot tea. Not to Regina’s surprise, the blonde’s eyes widen in shock as the inside of her mouth burned. “FUCK!”

 

Regina bites her bottom lip, fighting the smile that she knew was written all over her eyes. “A little hot?”

 

Emma looks straight at Regina and smirks when she says, “Very.”

 

Her body responds immediately with a deep flush, and Regina decides that she _definitely_ wants to strangle Emma. Kisses be damned. Openly flirting with your boss? That was certainly grounds for dismissal.

 

And yet…Regina experiences a want that plays all the way from her chest and down in between her legs.

 

“Have you heard Henry got a part in that play?” Regina asks airily, her too-high voice breaking the tension that had had Emma staring far too long at her boss’s blood red lips.

 

“The one we were practicing for? Yeah!” Emma and Henry had been practicing his lines for _weeks_ before the audition, and it had paid off—the kid had come bounding in from school yesterday with a huge smile and hug just for Emma.

 

“We did it!” he had shouted. “I’m the Huntsman!”


	3. Root Beer

It was four in the afternoon, and Regina was reading and editing, reading and memorizing, reading and signing. As Mayor of Storybrooke, Maine, she had always gotten distinct pleasure from this sort of paperwork. She would sign off on a new sidewalk and watch as it began to form within the next few weeks. She would accept an invitation to come to the opening of a new park or business and would shake the hands of the owners or the community members. She would sign off on a rezoning permit for a new extension for the burgeoning elementary school and would watch as her city _grew_.

 

Now, she was signing letters of congratulations to State Spelling Bee champions without ever having met them. She was reading draft after draft of legislation that would likely never make it out of committee or past the Senate. She was writing a eulogy to give at the funeral of a long-time State Senator whom she had met twice.

 

She felt so disconnected from everything. It was a distance she had never anticipated when she was running for Governor. She didn’t even interact with Legislators in her own party—it was all done by proxy and liaisons. She _must_ be too busy to meet with the Minority Whip, who doesn’t want to take up any of her precious time…

 

A knock on the door jarred her from her bitter thoughts.

 

“Delivery!” came a shout, and Regina called for the unexpected visitor to come in.

 

Bouncy blonde curls were flowing out from under a grey beanie. Painted-on blue jeans, long calf-hugging boots and that damned red jacket that Regina had somehow come to associate with the blonde. Any flash of red in her vision these days would make her heart jump despite her best intentions.  

Regina finally pulls her eyes away from Emma's face to notice that she was carrying two plastic bags that crinkled with each of her swaggering steps.

 

“Food,” Emma said in answer to Regina’s questioning gaze. “You’ve been working all day, and Ariel said you didn’t even stop for lunch.”

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be at Blaine?” Regina sort of hated that she always said the most accusatory and rude thing possible to the blonde. Tink would probably say it was a defense mechanism. She could go to hell.

 

“It’s my day off,” Emma says lightly, pulling out a container of salad for Regina and a giant burger for herself. She opened the container of French fries and put it on the desk between them and placed two bottles of root beer on the desk as well, sliding one over to Regina with her characteristic dimpled smile.

 

“And you choose to come to the Capitol building? With…this?” Regina looks distastefully at the food in front of her, picking up the bottle of root beer and spinning it around to assess the nutrition label. “It’s pure sugar.” Her eyes widen as she watches the blonde take a healthy swig of her root beer, the long column of her pale throat contracting powerfully.

 

“Don’t deny you love it," Emma says with a cheeky grin, and Regina forgets how to breathe. She couldn't possibly know Regina is attracted to her...could she? "Because I know you keep a pack in the second refrigerator, and I know you told Henry it’s for _grown-ups only_.” _Oh. The root beer._ At the look of dismissive guilt on Regina’s face, Emma continues with twinkling eyes. “I offered your son some and you know what he told me? He said, ‘Emma! Mom told me I can only drink it when I turn twenty-one.” 

 

Regina chews her salad thoughtfully, eyes narrowing with every word that the blonde utters. It was a kale-beet salad with goat cheese and a citrus dressing—delightful, really, but Regina would never let the blonde know that. She places her salad fork down delicately when she’s finished chewing and smiles tightly at her counterpart. She expertly grabs the bottle at the base with her left hand, trails up the bottle with her right hand and deftly fulcrums the cap off on the edge of her desk. She takes a healthy swig herself, much to the wide-eyed surprise of the blonde across from her.

 

“I, uh, o-kay,” Emma stutters. “I bet you were a kick at parties.” Regina can’t help but feel a massive swell of pride and… something else she doesn’t dare name every time she reduces the blonde to a stuttering mess. There's something in the way her cheeks flush and her eyes dart down that's just so...

 

Regina just inclines her head toward the blonde and lifts her root beer up in a mock-toast. “How did you come to work for Blaine house, anyway, Miss Swan?”

 

Emma instantly stiffens, her grip on her own root beer tightened to the point where Regina was fearing a shattered bottle and ruined carpet. “I, uh, needed a job and they gave me one,” Emma said with a tight smile of her own. It was such a stark contrast to her usual unclouded smiles that Regina felt instantly uneasy.

 

“Oh, of course. Do—do you live at Blaine house?” Regina was genuinely curious. She had never seen the blonde arrive or leave the building, and the blonde was known to stay with her long into the night when pressing events warranted it. Did she have a family? A significant other? 

 

“I live with my family on the West side.”

 

“Oh, really? My mother lives there, over off Lancaster Lane.” Regina’s entire existence revolved around her hated mother who had pushed her into politics and one very short-lived and bitter marriage—it was only fitting that she be mentioned in her awkward small talk with a beautiful employee.

 

“Oh, no. We live over in the shitty part. North street area.” Emma feels comfortable enough again to take a giant bite from her hamburger, finishing almost half the sandwich in one grotesque bite. Grease and dressing drip down her chiseled chin, and it takes the blonde a moment to reach for a napkin and wipe most of the mess away.

 

Much to her relief, Regina feels her attraction for the blonde wane slightly at the grotesque manners. She had been looking for reasons to dislike her alluring counterpart since she met her a few short months ago. “I can’t say I’m familiar with the area,” Regina muses, toying with the idea of a French fry. So golden and salty—

 

Emma hums in contentment, fondling her food baby before stretching lazily. Her shirt rides up, gifting Regina with the promise of impeccable abdominal muscles beyond said food baby.

 

Heat pooled between Regina's legs as she envisioned Emma, shirtless and glistening after a run. The blonde’s eating habits were summarily forgotten. As was, perhaps, Regina’s propriety, because she very well might have forgotten to close her mouth, if the irritating blonde’s smirk was anything to go by.

 

“Yes, Miss Swan?” Regina challenges, her voice all husk and intimidation. She would _not_ be made to blush like a schoolgirl.

 

Emma simply reaches over the desk for a French fry, an impish light glistening in her green eyes. “You don’t scare me, Governor Mills. I have leverage,” Emma says, voice low and equally intimidating.

 

Regina raises her eyebrows, curious but also slightly perturbed. What could Emma possibly have on her? 

 

“You dream about French fries,” Emma smirks, brandishing a fry in the air to emphasize her point. She bites down on the fry while looking Regina dead in the eyes for emphasis. 

 

“I do no such thing!” Regina exclaims, offended. She _might_ secretly sneak out of the mansion under the cover of night to take midnight walks to the local McDonald’s during her Time of Month—but she certainly did not _dream_ of French Fries.

 

How would Emma Swan know this, anyway? 

 

Emma must see the question in her eyes. “Oh, you know, the time you fell asleep face first on your desk after the blizzard? And the time you passed out on your office couch after the fisherman’s walkout? Oh yeah, and the time you curled up under your desk for a thirty minute Benadryl snooze after your mother blew through?”

 

Regina glares at Emma, refuses further conversation and makes a pointed gesture of throwing out the half-full carton of fries. Which she would most certainly not retrieve as soon as the insufferable blonde left her office. No. Not at all.

 

It unnerved her to no end that Emma Swan knew these things about her. It simply wasn’t proper. No…who was she kidding? Propriety had nothing to do with the matter. It simply wasn’t _safe_. Emma Swan was getting to close, too familiar, and it was something she had never allowed herself in her almost fifty years of existence. She simply needed to take more precautions when dealing with the woman. It as with this thought that Regina tersely smiles goodbye to her, quickly averting her gaze from the retreating woman because she shouldn’t be looking—

 

The rest of the day, she finds her mind replaying every smile and gesture of the blonde over in her head, a strange cycle that intermittently had her smiling and chastising herself.


	4. Missed Opportunities

Regina sighs heavily as she looks over the guest list and menus one last time. She hated events like these, but the 60th annual Blaine House charity gala was not something she could easily forgo. She had left most of the planning to her mother, who had always been an expert at inviting the right people and arranging them in the right way to ensure things operated smoothly. Putting it in her mother’s hands meant that she would undoubtedly be paired with some insufferable wealthy bachelor as the evening’s date, despite the fact that her mother knew she was exclusively interested in women—a reality her mother had successfully ignored and covered up for years. She had become expert in maintaining the illusion that she was interested in the men her mother set her up with while avoiding said dates as much as possible. She would grin and bear it as she had always done, for the sake of her career.

 

The door opens, breaking Regina out of her thoughts and revealing one smiling blonde. “How’s the schmancy gala planning coming?”

 

Regina smiles tightly. “Delightfully,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

 

“If you don’t like these things, then why do you do them?” Emma—sweet, naïve Emma—asks.

 

“Because I must.”

 

“You don’t have to do jack shit, Regina. You’re the captain now.”

 

“Your sentiment is appreciated, but no. I’m more constrained as Governor than I ever was as Mayor of Storybrooke. I’m merely filling a role.”

 

Emma huffs, crossing her arms petulantly, looking plenty like Regina’s ten year old. “You were elected, Regina. People want _you_ , and you don’t have to do jack shit _you_ don’t wanna do. Look—” Emma says, her eyes cast downwards as she thinks. “What’s one part of this gala you don’t actually wanna do?”

 

Regina feels an affectionate smile creep up on her face before she can stop it. Emma’s eyes were shining with protective fervor, and Regina’s insides feel like they’re on fire. “My mother set me up with the son of a wealthy donor. I’ve been scheming about how many times I’ll need step on his toes before he gives up trying to dance with me.”   

 

Emma laughs sharply, “Oh, you _are_ evil.” Then, more seriously, “Does she do this a lot?”

 

“Do what?”  
  
“Set you up with people you aren’t interested in?”

 

“Always.”

 

“Go with me,” Emma says in a rush of breath. She can’t read the look on Regina’s face, and blushes furiously at her own impulsivity. “So you don’t have to go with…whoever this guy is.”

 

Regina’s face changes into something more impassive once more. “Oh. Yes. Of course.” She pauses, thinking. How would her mother take this? Would the media get wind of it? No—it was too risky. “I don’t think it would be wise…” But perhaps, she could have both what she wanted and what her mother wanted. “But would you please consider attending as my Savior?”

 

“Your…Savior?”  
  
Regina’s eyes gleam with mischief, belying her quickly beating heart. “Sweep me away when the gentleman becomes too familiar, of course.”

 

“I—I can do that,” Emma says, trying not to look too disappointed.

 

\---------------------------

 

Emma shifts nervously on the back patio, lit with fairy lights and torches. Soft music is playing from somewhere, and a lone bartender stands at the other end, probably judging her harshly.

 

“Emma, stop worrying,” a voice says from behind her. “You look lovely.”

 

Emma scoffs, fidgeting with the buttons on her vest. This was a stupid idea. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She should have worn a dress like all the other women. She couldn’t look gayer than if she had worn nothing but four-wheeled roller skates and a gay pride flag wrapped around her shoulders.

 

Which was kind of the point, but whatever. She was having her doubts.

 

“Maybe I should just...leave. I don’t have any money to donate to any charity, and…I don’t even know what I’m doing here,” Emma confesses, straightening her bowtie for the twelfth time.

 

The door opens and a couple walks out onto the patio with them. The woman looks curiously at Emma, her eyes appraising. The two laugh as they make their way to the bar.

 

“Fuck. Nope. Can’t do this.”

 

“Emma,” Graham says, putting a gentle hand on her arm. “That woman found you _attractive_ , not amusing. Go. Regina’s been looking for you for the last hour, though she’ll never admit it.”

 

Emma sighs, smoothing her vest and jacket before looking longingly over at the bar. She had pregamed with some cheap boxed wine, hence her tardiness, but could probably use another glass of liquid courage.

 

“Champagne?” Graham asks, motioning in the direction of the bar.

 

“Please.”

 

He moves away, leaving Emma to stare at the assembled crowd through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. She watches as a man—good looking if you like the scruffy, smarmy look—holds a hand out to Regina, who accepts it with a smile that twists a knife into Emma’s insides. He moves Regina around the room gracefully, building up more nerves inside Emma’s gut. Emma had never learned to dance beyond the awkward swaying thing you do at middle school dances or the kind of dancing you do when you’ve had too many shots at a seedy club. She wasn’t cut out for this.

 

Graham returns, two glasses of champagne in his hands. They sip (well, one person sips; the other does a sort of desperate gulping) their champagnes quietly, Emma growing more irritated as she watches Regina laugh at something the man says, and watches his hand move lower on her back.

 

With a growl, Emma thrusts her empty flute into Graham’s hands before flinging open the door. The door closes a little louder than she intends, and Regina looks over the man’s shoulder at her. Emma’s heart is racing, and she can swear she sees Regina stumble slightly.

 

“May I cut in?” Emma says with as much authority as she can muster with her stomach feeling like it is. She feels simultaneously sick and elated as the man bows his head to her and drops his hands from Regina’s waist.

 

“And whom do I have the pleasure of relinquishing the lovely Regina to?” the man asks. Emma had hated him just for existing, but now she definitely has a real reason to. Smarmy bastard.

 

“Emma. Emma Swan.”

 

“Miss Swan,” he repeats. “Pleasure.” Regina’s hand falls into Emma’s and her brain sort of stops working for a second as Regina’s deep brown eyes meet hers. Emma’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or the woman, but she feels like she’s falling into Regina, with her soft smile, skintight but classy dress and her devastating red lips.    
  
“—Locksley,” she hears the man finish. Oh. He had been speaking that whole time. Emma smiles tightly at him before turning to Regina. “Shall we?”

 

Emma puts her hands where she had seen the Locksley man put his before. The dark blue velvet dress felt wonderful under her hands, and she can’t quite bring herself to not run her fingers over its softness.

 

“Emma,” Regina says softly. “You look wonderful.”

 

“People are staring at me.”

  
“Let them. You have every woman in this room salivating.”

 

Emma can’t breathe, but she can feel Regina’s chest move against her with every breath. Her face is so close to Regina’s that she can see every line in the small, beautiful scar above her lip and every fleck of gold in her unreadable deep brown eyes. “ _Every_ woman?” Emma’s only really interested in one particularly cagey woman, a brilliant, powerful, completely out-of-her league goddess.

 

“Well, except perhaps—”

 

“Miss Swan,” an older woman greets, her voice as warm as her eyes were ice. “How lovely you could make it.”

 

“Mother,” Regina greets dryly. Emma reluctantly releases her hold on Regina, swallowing against the lump in her throat.

 

“There are some people who are dying to meet you. A businessman from China interested in the fishing industry and two lovely gentlemen from Silicon Valley.”

 

Regina purses her lips and shoots an apologetic glance at Emma. For the rest of the night, Cora somehow finds a way to capitalize Regina’s time, leaving Emma to sip sullenly on champagne while Graham and Tink intermittently bring her their pity and snacks from the circulating waiters Emma has no energy to bother.


End file.
